


For All That Glisters

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Frottage, Inappropriate Workplace Behavior, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 07:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Elias gets Jon a gift. He hates it, until he doesn't.





	For All That Glisters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kinktober! Crushing those deadlines.

There’s a box sitting on his desk when Jon enters his office that morning. He flips the light switch to the side of the door and freezes with his hand still around the handle. It’s a slim box, grey and black, an understated sort of elegance to its minimalist design. It’s sat directly before his chair, framed by a tape recorder on one side and a stack of statements waiting to be filed on the other. 

Obviously, Jon immediately suspects it to be some sort of trap. It makes the lighter still in his pocket feel heavy, and he can almost hear the grinding scrape of the couriers’ coffin dragging along the ground between them. 

A few long seconds pass without Jon doing much more than staring unblinkingly at the package. He can imagine little good coming of anything being mysteriously left in his office to wait for him. The smart thing would be to… what? Throw it out? Stash it away somewhere, unopened and unexamined. Turn around and go back home for the day, and hope someone else had dealt with it by the next time he felt the bone-deep ache for a statement. 

True to form, Jon does none of this. Curiosity rankles in his chest, and he closes the door softly behind himself, as though he’s wary to alert anyone else in the Institute of his presence. At least if he’s going to go through with such a bad idea, he can do so by himself. He discards his coat in the chair across from his desk and steps around to the far side, plucking the card off the top of the box. It’s held in a blank white envelope, the lip of which is simply tucked into its sheath, nothing so base as licked-adhesive shut. Sliding it open reveals a matte white sheet, a curving cursive _congratulations_ rolling along its center, Elias’ signature positioned near the bottom right corner. 

Well. That’s not exactly what he was expecting. It doesn’t do much the lessen the dread that’s thick and sludge-like in his chest, a sensation that threatens to seep its way up his throat, strangle him breathless from the inside. Which, he suspects, is exactly the kind of thing that Elias was aiming to inspire by sending him such a thing in the first place. Jon frowns and lets the letter flutter from his grasp to the tabletop. 

His hands come to rest on the sides of the box, fingertips stroking down its length. Considering. Thumbs hooking beneath the bottom edge of its lid, pressure just shy of enough to slip it open. He shifts it, lifting the edge closest to him. Before it comes entirely off, Jon pushes the box back shut. He grabs it up and storms out of his office.

“I presume you were expecting me,” Jon says tersely as he shoves his way into Elias’ office, marching across its length and dropping the box down on his desk. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

Elias looks up calmly from his writing – scheduling, Jon notes, thinking that it’s Wednesday, of course, and hating that he knows that fact – to set his pen to the side in a manner that exudes well-worn patience. Still, there is a faint twist to his lips that sets the hairs along the back of Jon’s neck arise, though Elias only says, “I thought that much would at least be obvious, Jon, even to you.” 

“Well,” Jon says, indignant and snapping, “It isn’t.” 

“It’s a gift,” Elias says. As though that explains anything. As though that explains everything.

“ _Congratulations_ ,” Jon quotes. Elias inclines his head. “Congratulations on what?” 

“Your promotion, of course,” Elias answers. 

“And you don’t think it’s a bit late for that?” 

“On the contrary – it’s been nearly two years since you accepted your new position – not to the day, of course, but considering the rather ambiguous nature of the upcoming weeks, I thought it best to reward you while I could,” Elias says. Jon stares at him, nearly uncomprehending. “And you’ve done well, Jon – so well – I thought an expression of appreciation for your efforts wouldn’t be remiss.” 

His words run down Jon’s spine like water, wrap around his ribs like fingers and squeeze. “I-I don’t-”

“Usually,” Elias interrupts smoothly, “The expected response is _thank you_.” 

“…Thank you, Elias,” Jon says, words stiff and throat tight. This is not precisely how he might have imagined any of this going. He finds himself unwilling to hold Elias’ gaze any longer, attention slipping instead to the box on his desk. Jon’s… gift. 

“Would you like to open it now?” Elias asks. Suggests, really. 

Jon’s lips twist, slightly – it’s always awkward to open gifts in front of other people. Particularly when it’s in front of the gift-giver themselves, and Elias’ expectant, watchful gaze is heavy enough on its own without any extraneous pressures. Nevertheless, it feels like it’s only the polite thing to do. Especially in the wake of Jon suspecting that he’s made a bit of an ass of himself already. 

His eyes flick back up to Elias, studying his expression, though he’s as unsure as ever what it is that he finds there. What it is that he’s looking for in the first place. 

“Right,” he says. “I’ll just- right.” 

Jon opens the box. There’s a sharply folded sheaf of white tissue covering its contents, but he can see an indistinct something through the gauzy material. It’s a more delicate display than he had been expecting. The pulse of dread is still there, twisting sickly in his stomach. He’s more than capable of leaping to the worst conclusions or assumptions, and his mind races during the few seconds it takes him to lift the covering, spread it apart, and it’s all for naught, as he takes in black fabric – not nearly as much of it as he might have expected to find.

“What- Elias, what is this?” Jon asks. His fingers skate across the material, silky beneath his touch, the lace fine enough not even to snag on the tips of his fingers. 

“It’s a gift, Jon,” Elias says. 

Jon scowls at him, because they both know that wasn’t what he was asking. He pinches a corner of the material between his fingers and pulls it up, out of the box. His stomach plummets slightly.

“Is- is this what I think it is?” Jon asks. As if the shock and surreal nature of the situation have reduced him to his basest instinct of questioning. 

“That depends entirely on what it is that you think it is,” Elias answers. 

What it is, is this: black and lacy and entirely not enough fabric to decently cover any portion of his body – which is not strictly true, he reconsiders, cheeks burning hotly, as he spreads the material between both hands and can therefore quite vividly picture what parts of himself are meant to be exposed by the-

The-

Well, to be honest, calling them underwear seems to be doing a disservice to the greater category as a whole. 

“I-” Jon tries, and finds himself utterly without words. He looks at the thin material in his hands, and back down to the box, boggling at the remaining contents – more lace, just that little bit more sheer, and some, straps, or something, a bit that looks like it’s meant to go around his hips but- “What?” 

“Do you like it?” Elias asks. It’s obvious that he’s trying for his usual monotonous _don’t mind me, I’m just the day-manager_ affect, but there’s far too much blatant amusement in his undertones, and when Jon glares up at him there’s a positively infuriating smirk on his face. 

“What the hell, Elias?” Jon demands. “I-I- It’s a bit unprofessional, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Oh, come now Jon, I should think the two of us are far beyond the usual dictations of standard workplace decorum,” Elias says. Smugly. 

“Only because one of us has never properly learned the definition of workplace harassment,” Jon replies. Elias’ answering laugh is low and pleased; sinuous, if sounds could be said to be so. “What exactly am I meant to do with- with this?”

He regrets the question the moment it’s free. Both of Elias’ eyebrows raise – the expression makes Jon aware again of the heat in his face that’s never really left since the conversation began, aware of the fact that he is holding lingerie that was purchased for him by his boss, and, horrifically, aware that he knows exactly what he’s meant to do with it. Pictures himself sat on Elias’ desk in nothing but black lace – or bent over that same desk, bare chest shuddering against the dark wood – and either way it’s Elias pressed between his spread legs, mouthing at his skin through silk, petting hands along his covered thighs. 

“Generally-”

“-Don’t,” Jon stops him. He drops the underwear into the box like he’s been burned, slapping the lid back on tight. “That’s not going to happen.” 

“In that case,” Elias begins, but the curl of his lip never fades, “If you really don’t like it, there’s a gift receipt in the bottom. Feel free to return it, if that’s what you want.” 

“Obviously that’s what I want,” Jon snaps. Obviously. Obviously that is all he could ever want from this gift, and he’s annoyed thinking about having to go to some over-priced shop and get what will more than likely be _store credit_ for his troubles. “Do all your Archivists get something like this?” 

It’s meant to be a snarky little jab, but something in Elias’ expression shifts, and his voice is oddly sincere when he says, “No, Jon – not all of them.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say, above the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. So he simply snatches the box up again and clears his throat. “Well. I have actual work to get back to. As you are so fond of reminding me, the Unknowing isn’t going to stop itself.” 

“Of course.” Elias nods, giving a languid gesture towards the door. “I have full confidence in your abilities, Jon.” 

“Right,” Jon says. The sarcasm is half-hearted, at best. 

He tries to shove the encounter to the back of his mind for the remainder of the day, and is mostly successful – he hadn’t been entirely bluster, they have better things to worry about at the moment. But when he leaves his office for the night, he brings the box along with him, and it ends up sat atop his dresser when he gets home to his empty flat. 

It remains there for just over a week. Jon finds himself regarding it when he gets dressed in the mornings. He’s even taken it out, once, laid everything out piece by piece on his comforter, arranging the items how he supposes they’re meant to be worn. Even alone, in the privacy of his own room – what he hopes is privacy, anyway, remembering pictures with their eyes torn out – his cheeks flush with warmth, and actually considering putting any of it on is- out of the question.

Even so, the box’s mere presence is an irritant. Like a splinter, a sliver of wood caught up beneath his skin, stabbing at him sharply just when he’s begun to forget about it. He is, after all, curious – he can admit that to himself. The whole idea - lingerie in general, really - is not one that he’s ever given much consideration. Now, of course, he’s been almost forced into considering it. And the material is quite soft in his hands, flowing like sand or water between his fingers. 

Jon’s standing in his room early one morning, just out of his shower and still toweling idly at his hair. The sun’s not yet risen, so he can almost imagine the world yet remains asleep, his room a soft yellowed puddle of light in the darkness. His eyes catch on the box and he pauses. Bites his lip for a moment, thinking of the time, how long it might take him to get ready from this point, when he’s meant to be at the Institute. He goes into the washroom and hangs his towel over the shower door. 

And back in his room, Jon pulls out the lace underwear, and slides them up his legs. Well, “underwear,” he still thinks of it in quotation marks. And really, it’s a thong. Only just enough coverage to hide his cock, shoved to the side along his hip, and balls, and the upper edges of it are all that dark, delicate lace. He’s not sure how to feel about how well they fit his frame. 

It’s tempting, it really is, to just stop right there. But there’s still three more items to go, and Jon is nothing if not a completionist. He pulls out the belt next, more black, complementary lace, with four silky straps hanging down from it, each tipped with a metal clasp hidden swathed within the soft fabric. Jon sighs, undoing the hooks on the back of it, trying to work out where it’s meant to sit on his hips.

The stockings come next and those are actually a bit frustrating to roll up the length of his legs. They’re sheer enough that he worries over ripping holes in them, unsure how far up his legs they’re really meant to go. They stop just above his midthigh, squeezing gently at the meat of them, thin black that adds a strangely enticing sheen to his legs before they, too, terminate in lace at their ends. He just tries not to think about any of it too much as he snaps the clasps into place, the front two hooking on easily, his spine arching weirdly, awkwardly when he struggles to close the back two properly.

And then he’s done. He’s done exactly what he’d said he wasn’t going to do, that he hadn’t _wanted_ to do, and Jon stares down at his body. Pale and scarred flesh interrupted by twining lace, patterns that call to mind all the horrible things patterns do anymore, fractals and mazes, and he almost fancies he can see the thin, web-like threads of lace coalesce to form eyes. 

He goes into the bathroom. Studies the picture of his body in the mirror like it’s someone else’s, frowning at the swathes of skin peeking out between each piece. Between the lace of the belt and the thong, forming sloped diamonds over the side of his hips. The length of his upper thigh bisected cleanly in two by a glossy black strip. Around the back, where the lace just stretches above the globes of his ass, the belt arching over them like architecture, a second vivisection of lace.

He’s jolted out of his contemplation by an alarm on his phone going off. The one he sets when he thinks he’s going to get involved in something in the morning – reading, usually – an alarm that means if he doesn’t want to be late to a job he might not even be capable of being fired from anymore, he needs to leave. There’s a brief moment where he panics, berating himself for the waste of time, for how long it’s going to take him to peel all of this off, to find some actual clothes to wear for the day, until a thought occurs.

Because, really. This _is_ clothing he’s in right now, isn’t it? Nothing that he would normally choose to wear for himself, of course, and certainly not work appropriate. But it’s not as though anyone would need to know. And it doesn’t feel awful, anyway. It’s actually quite nice, cool and soft, and Jon doesn’t think about how it feels to be cinched into something around his hips, the light tugging of the garters when he moves. 

And there isn’t enough time to get changed, right? He’ll miss his train. It’s not even that awkward to have so much on beneath his slacks – though the way the materials slide against each other is distracting for a bit. By the time he’s reached the Archives for the day, Jon has almost managed to convince himself that he doesn’t even notice it’s on. 

Except for the way that he keeps thinking about it, of course. Glancing down at his fairly standard workplace attire, and thinking of what lies on just the other side of it. Remembering what he’d thought about before, himself on Elias’ desk, legs bracketing Elias’ shoulders as the man sat at his chair, leaning forward into Jon - and now, of course, Jon has the added bonus of actually knowing what he looks like in it. 

And he wonders, too, what Elias might do. If Jon were to show him how he’s decided to use his gift. If he were to go into Elias’ office and slip his clothes off, what he might look up to find in Elias’ face, in his eyes. Those rare flashes of an inhuman hunger that have become increasingly common (or maybe, Jon just knows what to look for now, has begun to read Elias the way he himself has always been read). He can’t decide if it’s something he wants to find out or not. He’s gotten remarkably skilled at recognizing when knowledge is better left unpursued. And no better at all at letting it remain that way. 

The indecision paralyzes him, a bit, winds him into anxious twists. He spends his extra energy pacing in his office, has walked halfway to his door more times than he can count before stopping, drawing back, retreating to his own desk only to repeat the process minutes later. 

The matter is resolved for him as he walks idly down one of the hallways towards the lower Archives, eyes scanning an older statement that’s missing some of its follow-up material. Someone comes up before him and out of habit more than recognition, Jon steps to the side to let them pass, looking up with scowling irritation when instead of a half-unacknowledged encounter, said someone grabs onto his elbow and brings them both to a halt.

That someone is, perhaps predictably, Elias. Jon’s heart clambers into his throat when their eyes meet, his surly expression no doubt left lying on the floor somewhere. It’s that old and well-worn sense of paranoia, then, that Elias _knows_ , and his skin crawls and shivers. Elias’ bland, unfolding smile does little to lessen the feeling.

“Jon,” Elias says simply. “I’ve been hoping to run into you sometime today.”

“Not quite so literally, I imagine?” Jon wagers. Elias’ fingers tighten on his arm. 

“I’d like to speak with you,” Elias says. 

“What is it?” 

“Privately, if you don’t mind.” 

Jon’s nerves spark and sputter against each other. “All right.” He swallows, unable to look away from the draw of Elias’ eyes, except for little flickers to other areas of his face – the arch of brows, his lips. “Uh, we can use my office-”

“No need,” Elias says, and he’s suddenly leaning towards the wall, opening a door at Jon’s side into one of the unused offices that’s generally been converted to storage in recent months. He guides Jon inwards with that one hand anchored on his elbow, shifting as he does until he’s tugging Jon towards him, tossing the door shut, pushing Jon against it as it closes. 

“Elias,” Jon breathes, his pulse racing, inhalations coming in short gasps of air, almost alarmed at how much this barrage of simple acts affects him. The papers he’d been holding flutter silently to the floor. 

Elias leans into his space, still only touching him at his arm, but the rest of his body, his mannerisms, offering – threatening – more. He places his other hand flat on the door beside Jon’s waist, fingers just shy of making contact. 

“Jon,” he says. He’s close enough for the air of his breath to ghost across Jon’s lips. “I want you to show me.” 

Jon swallows. Where Elias has him at the elbow, his forearm turns, fingers in kind curling around Elias’ arm. The fingers of his other hand push ineffectually at the wood of the door behind him. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Elias gives that laugh again, the one that seems to hook between Jon’s vertebrae and reverberate through his bones. Low, pleased – sinister, but only because Jon knows what Elias is. Or at least has an idea of what he isn’t. “You don’t know?” 

“Honestly, Elias,” Jon says as he lies through his teeth, “I have no idea what you mean.” 

“Ah,” Elias breathes, and takes the opportunity to lean in to Jon’s neck, biting sharply at the at the side of it, “My apologies, then. I suppose I’ll have to show you, will I?” 

The nip of Elias’ teeth into Jon’s skin is harsh, jolting, leaves him buzzing in their wake, stoked onwards by the soft brush of Elias’ lips against him when he speaks. Something like a groan is caught in Jon’s throat, and he flinches when Elias’ hand moves from the door and onto his body, rucks the front of his shirt up and slips beneath the waist of his slacks.

“E-Elias-”

“Oh, my, Archivist,” Elias says, teasing and quiet as he strokes at Jon’s skin through silk and lace. “What do we have here?” 

“It-” Jon’s cut off by a sigh, as Elias’ fingers abruptly touch his skin in one of those gaps, before they go back to petting down the curve of his pelvis. “It was a gift.”

“Is that so?” Elias asks. His finger plucks at the top of the strap trailing down Jon’s left thigh, Elias breathing in slowly while Jon’s leg jerks beneath his touch. He withdraws his hand and pops the button of Jon’s slacks deftly, leaving his other arm unmoving in Jon’s clutching grasp. “How thoughtful. Someone must know you quite well.” 

“Shut up,” Jon says. But he doesn’t protest as Elias’ hand shoves his trousers down, and he holds himself utterly still when Elias pulls away. Puts just enough distance between them to stare at Jon, lifting his shirt up so his view is left unhindered. 

“I do hope you thanked them appropriately,” Elias murmurs, gaze steady and evaluative, for long enough that Jon begins to squirm beneath the weight of his attention. Elias lets his shirt drop. He traces a finger along the top of one of Jon’s stockings, starting at its innermost edge and sliding outwards, stopping at the garter and following it upward. 

“I suspect I’m about to,” Jon says. Elias chuckles. He slides his finger between the strap and Jon’s skin, stroking up and down, testing gently at the tension of it. 

“Intuition, Jon?” Elias asks, and Jon frowns.

Elias finally relaxes his hold of Jon’s elbow, slides his hand down Jon’s forearm. He pauses at Jon’s hand, thumb running over its back surface, fingers petting at his palm, and his grip tightens for just a moment. Jon’s fingers curl in response and, honestly, is he holding hands with his boss? It’s a surprising enough revelation that Jon forgets about his confusion, until Elias withdraws his hand completely and continues, “Or is that something you _know_?” 

“Not everything has to be about _monsters_ and _becoming_ , and-” Jon starts off heatedly enough, irritated at the sudden reminder of what he is – what Elias intends for him to be – but stops short at Elias’ expression. “I- Was that a joke?” 

Elias shrugs, a smooth and obnoxiously graceful response. But he looks entirely too pleased with himself, as well, and his fingers are working along the buttons of Jon’s shirt, beginning at the lowest. “It’s not that surprising, Jon; I do have a sense of humor.” 

“Please,” Jon says flatly. Unimpressed, wondering at how the mood had flipped so utterly, just as Elias reaches the midway point of his shirt and stops. He spreads it so Jon’s stomach is bared, eyes dark and intent once again, and without even a hint of warning Elias is sinking to his knees before him, biting a line from just above his navel down to the top of the garter. 

“It’s so lovely when you remember your manners,” Elias says. Jon rolls his eyes, but the words tip over something warm and liquid inside him, his stomach twisting pleasantly. 

It’s not something he should enjoy, he knows that. The feeling’s stoked that much higher by Elias’ hands on his hips, and Jon shudders when Elias’ fingers find his bare flesh, as if the two of them were flint and steel, each touch like a spitting spark. Elias’ hands slide lower still, onto his thighs, kneading at them and encouraging Jon to shift his stance, spread his legs farther open. One of them jerks Jon’s slacks down to puddle near his ankles so Elias has room to come in closer. 

Any response he might have tried to muster is lost in a sudden swamp of sensation. Elias returns his mouth to Jon’s skin, first dry presses of his lips to the inside of his thigh, his tongue slipping out when he snakes his hands around to squeeze at Jon’s ass. There’s the barest grazing of teeth against him, straight and blunt, surrounded by the soft warmth of Elias’ lips, and Jon shivers as they close slowly, pulling at his skin, bunching up tissue between them and tightening just enough to pinch before Elias opens his mouth again. Opens wider, bites harder, over and over, worrying at the same spot of Jon’s sensitive skin. 

There’s one last, lingering dig of his teeth, and then Elias sucks at this captured bit of Jon before he pulls back with a wet pop. Jon’s head is fairly swimming already; something Elias must be able to tell when he looks up, if his pleased, borderline salacious expression is anything to judge from. Elias claws his fingers into Jon, drags down with his nails, catches at the crease between his ass and thighs, and meanwhile turns his mouth back to Jon’s skin, groping along with his lips and tongue until he finds a new spot that makes Jon jerk and flinch and bites back down. 

Jon flattens one hand against the door, and pets through Elias’ hair with the other. Barrage of tactile sensation aside, the image alone is enough to stir blood, Elias on knees between Jon’s legs. A string of red, angry marks are left in the wake of his mouth, mapping where on Jon he’s been, but giving no clue where he’s going. Which, as it turns out, is Jon’s other thigh. 

Jon scratches at Elias’ scalp, back and forth, kneads at base of his skull. His fingers tighten reflexively as Elias starts up those small pinching nips again, sharp and high little jolts. Elias’ lips buzz against his skin with a hum when Jon’s fingers twist in his hair. On and on, Elias sucking at his skin, taking more between his teeth until the pain is a dull, radiant ache that causes Jon to tremble, from not pushing into it, from not pulling away from it. Until his skin feels raw and still Elias continues, doesn’t pull away until Jon’s skin is shiny and cherry red, and ringed with indentations of Elias’ teeth. 

The back of Jon’s head thumps against the door as Elias works his way up higher along his thigh. Elias’ hands slip around to the front of him and pin his twitching hips to the door. Before the right crawls across to squeeze at his cock through lace and silk, palming at the hard length of it.

“Looks like someone is enjoying their gift,” Elias says. As if his smugness in this situation is called for or desired. Jon might be more annoyed if his hand didn’t feel so nice sliding up and down his shaft. Dexterous fingers wandering.

“I think someone else is enjoying it more,” Jon grumbles. Shuddering when Elias’ warm breath rolls over his cock, the man himself a degree away from taking his cockhead into his mouth. 

“Is that so?” Elias asks, lips close enough to brush his clothed skin. “How rude of them.” 

And then he does envelop Jon with his lips, surrounding him in wet and warm and soaking the fabric so it clings to him, tongue writhing in sinuous movements. It’s a good thing Elias is back to anchoring his hips because Jon finds them jerking and striving to drive forward. Enough that Elias’ thumbs feel bruising on the frontward curve of them, a deep ache that swirls and winds itself around the higher pitched shocks inspired from Elias’ mouth. 

“E-Elias,” Jon breathes out like a sigh. His fingers tighten in Elias’ hair, torn between tugging him closer and dragging him away. 

“Are you sure you aren’t enjoying yourself?” Elias asks him. He drags his tongue from the base of Jon’s enclosed cock to the tip, sucking at it when he reaches the end. 

“I never” -Jon has to stop to drag in a shaking breath- “Never claimed otherwise.” 

Elias pops off him with a lewd sound, grazing his teeth across sensitive skin beneath delicate lace. “Just that I’m having a better time than you.” 

“I don’t see much evidence to the contrary.” Evidence certainly not straining against the confines of his gift.

“Ah, I see,” Elias says, serious and contemplative, before drawing back and taking two of his own fingers into his mouth. Eyes meeting Jon’s while the length of them slides slowly in, gaze heavy, the pale of his eyes set off from the flush barely blossomed across the high points of his cheeks. They slip soundlessly back out, wet with spit. “That’s quite a predicament.”

“Q-Quite,” Jon agrees shakily. 

He clutches at Elias’ shoulders, hands leaving the door and his hair. Elias has his hand insinuated between Jon’s thighs, reached up and twitched the fabric to the side – a sharp lance of a thing, that, how easy and quick it is to expose him – so he can begin to work both of his fingers inside Jon at once. 

“And how might we go about rectifying that?” Elias muses. As though he doesn’t hear the small sounds being coaxed out of Jon with each electrifying stroke of his fingers. Or feel the grip of his fingers, the twitch of his hips when he’s finally breached. 

It hurts a bit, of course, which is not exactly an issue. Elias takes his left hand off Jon’s hip to grasp one of his thighs instead, angled so his thumb digs into one of the uglier marks he’s left, deeply radiant aching that seeps outward around it like curls of heat. He times his hands, somehow, so his right thrusts inside Jon while the left squeezes, a battering ram of sensation. 

Elias is unerring with him. Uniquely intrusive in how he knows how to twist and ply Jon’s body better than Jon himself would, in all likelihood. It doesn’t take long for Elias to drag him to the edge of orgasm, leave him hanging there just long enough to hear Jon turn his name into some manner of plea and prayer before he puts his mouth on him again, so that Jon finishes trapped inside his clothing still. 

His knees are shaking a bit, the weight he isn’t resting against the door at his backside supported mostly by Elias. It throws him almost off balance when Elias rises, gathering Jon in his arms before quickly reaching between the two of them and fumbling with his own clothing. Freeing his cock and rutting against Jon with rolling thrusts that shake the door a bit in its frame. His head ducked down against Jon’s neck. 

Jon finds himself clinging to him, a hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt near his spine. His other arm wrapped around his shoulders, encouraging him closer until Elias’ breathing begins to go erratic and the pace of his hips quickens, hard and demanding and some part of Jon wishes they were even closer.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead he tilts his head to almost nuzzle at Elias’ temple and asks him, rather compellingly, “How long have you been thinking about this?” 

Elias moans, a velvet sound, and Jon feels his cock pulse low against his abdomen, hot spills of come down his pelvis. “All day, Jon. Every time I saw you pacing in your office, waiting for you to come to me. Since this morning when I watched you put it on.” 

Elias talks himself through his own orgasm, keeps grinding into Jon heedless of the utter mess he’s making. Compulsion is so often something Jon realizes only in its aftermath, after he’s already drunk of someone’s spilled secrets. Here and now, it’s almost a physical sensation – Elias has brushed his questions off readily enough in the past that his sudden succumbing to it is noticeable. As intoxicating as the shudder of his breath against Jon’s neck. 

“How often do you watch me?” Jon asks, because he wants to know and because he wants more, and because he wants to feel the rippling charge between them again, he wants that sensation of Elias being pried gently apart. “What do you think about? What do you want from me?” 

Cheater that he is, Elias digs his teeth into Jon’s neck to silence himself. Jon can feel his lips moving against his skin. When he reaches up and presses fingers to the front of Elias’ throat he can feel the straining tension there. Like tension wires, and Jon wonders if they could ever snap, if he could just keep pushing and pushing until Elias didn’t have a choice in the matter, couldn’t choose not to answer or to occupy his mouth instead. 

He wants very much to try, and worries at what that says about him. Is it actually something he wants? Or is it Beholding, hungry and empty inside him, always wanting more. Lately, he’s been wondering what the difference even is. 

Elias withdraws from him eventually. He presses his lips to where his teeth have been, and then brings his mouth to Jon’s, tasting like copper. Lingering close enough that they’re still touching as he says, “You can still bleed, Jon.” 

_What does human even mean?_

Jon doesn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. If that was somehow Elias’ callous manner of comfort, or if he was just reminding Jon that the distinction hardly matters. Perhaps it’s both. Elias pulls away entirely, leaving Jon to slump against the door. 

“Right,” Jon finally says. He licks his lips against the remnant taste. “I can still bleed. And still die.” 

“You can,” Elias agrees. “It’s very possible you might.” 

“Yes, thank you _so much_ -” Jon’s acidity is cut off by Elias’ mouth against his again, swallowing his protests. 

“Do you want me to tell you that you won’t?” Elias asks once Jon’s appropriately breathless. “You wouldn’t believe it, even if you wanted to.” 

This habit of Elias’ is annoying – his insistence on always being right. Still. Jon wants- he doesn’t know. He wants something, something that he knows he isn’t likely to get regardless, as he asks, “Do you think I’m going to die? In the Unknowing. Trying to- to stop it.” 

Elias takes a deep, slow breath. Savoring those tingles, Jon supposes. “As I said, it’s entirely possible. Perhaps even likely.” It’s a rather heavy sinking in the pit of his stomach. Elias watches him, and touches him carefully. “But no, Jon, I don’t think you’re going to die. I’m sure, pessimist you are, you’ve convinced yourself otherwise, but I’ve never lied to you – your progress thus far has been impressive, in such a short amount of-”

It’s Jon turn to surge forward and use his lips to muffle sound. Drinking the dregs of words he both longs to hear and can’t bear to stand, and this time when they part there’s a sense of finality to it. Elias pulls a kerchief from some pocket or another and begins to wipe himself off with it, righting his clothing. Jon is much less hopeful about his own. The mess drying inside his underwear and on them, already feeling sticky. He looks down at the garment, feeling lazy warmth flush him at the sight of the black lace splattered with Elias’ come. 

“Well, this is ruined,” Jon says. So much for store credit. He glances up to Elias expectantly, but the kerchief is nowhere to be found now and Elias is- Elias is looking where Jon just was, heavy lidded with satisfaction. Ass. 

“A shame,” Elias answers, while Jon resigns himself to pulling his clothes into place over the mess and dealing with it later. In the bathroom, or maybe he’ll just go home for the day. “I’ll have to get you a new set when you come back.” 

Jon pauses only briefly in fastening his belt. Another promise he sorely wants to believe and doesn’t. And if that’s the case – if he and everyone caught in the tangle around him are about to die stopping a dance – there’s simply no reason not to play along. “Perhaps something in blue, then.” 

Elias blinks, eyebrows raised a degree. Suitably startled for a moment before he replies, “I’ll keep that in mind.”


End file.
